Forget
by A Field of Starlight
Summary: "Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it." But what about those who can never forget, not even for a single moment? What about those who are doomed to remember? Series of oneshots.
1. Lest We Forget

Author's Note: I really shouldn't be starting something new... Blegh, whatever.

This will be written in a kind of stream of consciousness-like way, so basically, don't expect any type of organization besides basic formatting.

A warning: I don't know if this is going to offend any Canadians, but... I think it's better to warn you now that you might be offended. I don't really know, though... Same goes for all the rest of the chapters, actually. I do not mean to insult any country's traditions or culture, I'm just trying to write something depressing.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I have no claim to ownership of Hetalia: Axis Powers. It belongs to Himaruya-sama, who has my eternal admiration. :)

* * *

**_Lest We Forget..._**

* * *

_At the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month..._

Canada still remembered the needless bloodshed on that day, before the hour came. He remembered the bloodshed of every day, in that war, and the wars before, and the wars after. He felt every death, every life being snuffed, every pained cry...

Remembrance Day.

That's what his people called it. That's what they called the day when they gathered to honor the dead and the gone, and to try to remember the mistakes, the hurt, the sorrow, of the past.

They never could, not really.

Not what he could remember.

Canada preferred to spend Remembrance Day alone.

Of course, every year, without fail, he would be asked to go. Every year, his people would look to him hopefully, wondering if that year was the year the nation of Canada would finally break in tradition, and attend the ceremonies that were held in honor of those he could remember, and the rest could not.

But that was precisely why every year, without fail, he declined.

Every year, he would hear the sound of the bells tolling, of his anthem, of the strains of music floating on the breeze. Every year, he could feel the solemnity gathering around that one point, and then...

Silence.

That wonderful silence in which he can finally just be himself, where he can finally just close his eyes and _be at peace_.

It was the best and worst time of every year.

The absolute silence reverberated through the open space, filling him to the brim and threatening to make him burst. He let his mind go blank, let the silence envelope him completely, let it embrace him and cradle him and smother him...

He let the silence, the silence that was to be for remembering, help him forget.

For, even if it was only a short time, Canada craved the emptiness that forgetting could bring.

Then, there was noise again. The world came rushing back, as strains of slow, sad music and loud but solemn words and sound once again filled the air, as people picked up their wreaths and walked forward to place them down, reverently, in their appropriate positions.

At the end of the official ceremony, his people streamed toward the place where all could pay their respects, where flowers soon covered the ground like snow.

And then, finally, it was over, and Canada emerged from the shadows where he had been a spectator the whole day, where he had always been, every year, on that day.

He walked forward, placing a gentle hand on the memorial, just thinking.

Then he reached into his pocket, bringing out a flower of pure, bright red, with a center of dark, and just held it for a moment, closing his eyes as the sun set and the moon rose and the millions of twinkling stars finally decided to emerge from their day of rest.

The next morning, he would have to return to the hectic life of being a nation. Having to deal with the constant stress of the world conferences, of meetings, of politics, and economics, and international tensions, of being forgotten once again...

He was always forgotten, it seemed, always going unnoticed by other nations, or mistaken.

Funny how a day dedicated to remembering was Canada's only chance to forget himself.

When morning came, all that was left was a single unblemished petal among a sea of red.

* * *

Author's Note: Woop. Depressing stuff is depressing.

So, for people who don't know (*cough*Americanslikemyself*cough*), the flowers are red poppies, which are symbolic apparently because of the song "In Flanders Fields" and their color, which is like blood. I say apparently, because Wikipedia is sometimes not trustworthy, and I'm too lazy to look for another source.

Did you know that apparently Veteran's Day is on the same day as Remembrance Day, but Memorial Day is closer in meaning? I did not know that... Then again, I had no idea what day any of the above mentioned holidays were on until I researched it, so meh.

So, I have about, uh... 12(?) chapters of this planned out, but since school is freakishly busy this year, and I'm writing other stories as well... This won't be updated very regularly.

Hope you liked it!


	2. If We Forget

Author's Note: Hihi peoples! Here's the next chapter. This time, it features America, because I wanted it to. *glares at people who might possibly look even a little bit like they're getting ready to object*

* * *

**_If We Forget_**

* * *

_A date which will live in infamy..._

It was the anniversary, again. The anniversary of _that_ day, when the one he had thought to be his... well, not really friend, but close acquaintance, the one whom he had tried to coax out into the world... The day that _he_ had attacked.

That one, that nation, was now his best friend (outside of his family, of course. France was a great person to talk to when you were troubled, despite his occasionally pervy attitude, England would always and forever be his sweet, caring older brother, even if he didn't need the European nation's protection anymore, and no one could ever, _ever_ break his ties with Canada ... or at least, that was what he hoped...), and would most likely be for the rest of their lives.

But America knew. He knew that everything could change in an instant. With just the gentle flap of a butterfly's wings, a mountain that had stood for a thousand, ten-thousand, a hundred thousand... no, a _million_ years, could collapse. It was the way of the world.

He still remembered that day, the unexpected pain, both physical and mental. The rally for war, the bloodshed that followed, the countless cries of pain and despair... All because of a single, pivotal moment.

And all culminating in a single, devastating end.

He could never forget all that they had done to each other.

Sure, his government and his people and his allies and so many others justified it, saying "It was a war!" or "Desperate times call for desperate measures.", but America couldn't seem to just brush it off as easily as they could. He, unlike them, could at least try to understand the feeling of so many thousand, lost.

In front of his home, his flag was hanging at half-staff. Most of the time, he kept it up high, regardless of what had happened on that day in history. But that day, he let it droop.

The thirteen stripes of alternating red and white... It seemed to him that they were mocking him. Do you remember, back when we were all you were? they seemed to ask. Can you recall your past?

Yes. Yes, he could. His past was what defined him, after all. It was what made him America. His ability to remember what had gone by was what separated him from the rest of his people.

There were so many things, he mused as he watched the sun's rays rise and strike the banner of red, white, and blue, so many things that had been forgotten. Sure, they were remembered in theory, but who still remembered, firsthand, the Great War, the Civil War, the War of 1812, the American Revolutionary War...? Even the second World War, who besides the oldest generation still could remember the reality of those fateful years?

Who except him, and those who had participated with him?

From the direction of the capital came the beginning chords of his national anthem, and America closed his eyes, letting the familiar sounds wash over him.

It was nice, hearing those notes, letting them cleanse his mind and his soul of the corruption of history, of memory, of seeing things that were never meant to be seen.

It was one of the only constants in the ever-changing world around him. And even it, could change in an instant. And after that... well, all that would be left would be his memories.

If America forgot, who would be left to remember?

The innocent world slowly awakened to the bright light of the morning sun.

* * *

Author's Note: Why do I use so much symbolism? I feel like an English teacher... Ah, well.

This chapter definitely has a different style than the previous one. The rest probably will as well. So, I'm sorry if you don't really like it...

Hope you liked it!


	3. When We Forget

Author's Note: I'm finally back after a kinda-hiatus. So more depressing for you! Russia this time!

Oh, and I forgot to mention this before, but the italicized sentence at the top of the chapters are quotes. Canada's comes from the armistice signed between the Allied forces and Germany at the end of WWI, which stated that all fighting would end "at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month" of 1918. America's comes from the Infamy speech (is that what its official name is?) by President Franklin D. Roosevelt on the day after the Pearl Harbor attacks. This chapter's is a quote from the book _A People's Tragedy: A History of the Russian Revolution_ by Orlando Figes. It's supposed to reference Bloody Sunday (the Russian one, not the Irish one), but if it doesn't really, well meh.

* * *

**_When We Forget_**

* * *

_We have reached that frightful moment when death is better than the prolongation of our unbearable sufferings... _

Russia remembered the snow, the cold, the biting winter air... The sounds of his people, bearing the harsh winter, the sounds of guns being primed and aimed...

He remembered the grim determination, the methodical preparations, the cohesive unity of the military's motions against the backdrop of heated protests and disorganized but peaceful chaos...

He remembered the blood, the screams, the crimson spreading onto, seeping into, staining the pure white snow a morbidly beautiful red...

But that wasn't the worst of it. Oh, no, definitely not.

No, the worst was waking up, finding himself standing in the snow, his fingers wrapped around that heavy iron pipe...

The worst was seeing the droplets of red that speckled the metallic surface, like the stars on a clear night, so many, so much...

Russia himself could not recall any of what happened to lead him to that position, and Lithuania would not tell him. The day was a blank stretch in his memory.

But it was the blankness that tormented him most.

Hundreds of thousands of possible scenarios filled that empty void, much more than should have been possible, and Russia did not know which was true, if any. What had he done, during that short time? How many of his own people had he injured, killed, brutally beaten to death?

Russia would never know. Because he had forgotten.

And yet... somehow, it was a relief, to forget, to have blissfully empty stretches where nothing could harm him, where nothing could come and destroy him, except for himself. Those blank periods... Russia often retreated to those when times were rough, when he needed to stop thinking, to stop _being_, for a brief moment.

Sometimes, he just needed to be blank, white, empty, so much like the white on his flag, and hide and cover up and bury deep inside him the blue of sadness and the red of blood.

A deep breath in, a deep breath out.

Violet eyes fluttered open to greet the light of the midday sun, its bright, yellow-white rays piercing through the blue of the sky, traveling through hundreds of thousands of kilometers through the lonely, empty black of space...

Somewhere in the distance, familiar chords echoed against the backdrop of the barren tundras of Siberia, and he slowly made his way forward, toward the sound, shedding his melancholy - and his memories - as he went.

Tears found their way onto his cheeks, but he carelessly brushed them away.

Perhaps it was a defense mechanism, perhaps it was insanity. He did not care.

If forgetting was the only way to achieve temporary relief, even if the consequences would later be worse...

So be it.

Russia once again lost himself in the emptiness of his mind.

* * *

Author's Note: So, um... Yeah. This somehow turned into an exploration of Russia's character... *shrugs*

I don't think this one was as depressing as Canada's or America's... And it was shorter... Eh, whatever.

Hope you liked it!


	4. That Which We Forget

Author's Note: So, yesterday was Remembrance Day in the Commonwealth! (I think. I heard somewhere that some places celebrate it on the Sunday before, so... it was kinda Remembrance Day? But I thought it was just an evolution of Armistice Day, like the US's Veteran's day, and Armistice Day was definitely on the 11th... Or maybe it wasn't? Gah. So confused...)

So, as part of a fic that was inspired by the idea of Remembrance Day, here's another chapter.

The quote (which is still insanely long, even after I've severely truncated it) comes from Winston Churchill's... I actually don't know what it comes from. Speech of some sort, maybe? Care to enlighten me, anyone?

* * *

_**That Which We Forget**_

* * *

_We shall go on to the end... We shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be... We shall never surrender, and even if... this Island.. were subjugated... then our Empire beyond the seas... would carry on the struggle, until... the New World... steps forth... to the rescue of the old. _

England sighed. So many years... so many battles... so many lost... so many tears... It almost hurt to think about it.

But only almost. He had long since trained himself to be immune to these things. They all had. It was the bane of their kind, their curse to bear. If they didn't... they would all go insane.

He remembered when it wasn't that way. When everything was still bright and fresh, when the world still seemed so new, so beautiful... he remembered when he was young, as young as the humans that lived on his land. How wondrous the world had seemed, how marvelous! But now...

Now, he knew reality. He had seen firsthand how cruel humans could be, how brutal, and he wanted to cry out to them. Why waste the short time you had on something that hurt so much? Why destroy yourself, fighting for something so impermanent? For he also knew how impermanent things could be. After all, hadn't he once been the feared and awed British Empire? And now, he was just himself. All his colonies, his dear, precious younger (and sometimes older) siblings...

All had left him. Perhaps not as violently as America (_Why, America? I'm not your little brother anymore, England..._), but slowly (_Please, England? I'm a responsible nation now! ... Alright, Canada, you can try..._), surely (_Come on, England! Kiwi and I are strong! Besides, you let Canada! ... Fine. But you must behave yourselves, Australia, New Zealand. Being a nation isn't to be taken lightly..._), they had left (_Mr. England. What is it, India? You know what. Ah. Yes..._), his family abandoning him (_I'm going back to China now. Goodbye, England. Goodbye, Hong Kong..._), setting out on their own.

And yet. He remembered their leaving, yes, but he also recalled the good days, spent together, when he was never alone... He remembered the small, smiling faces of his New World colonies (_who would someday grow up to be among the strongest nations in the world_), the initial sullen coldness his Asian colonies displayed (_which would soon turn to a warm kindness_), the sunny disposition of his African colonies (_who could make him feel so welcomed_)... He remembered the laughter, the sunlight, the joy.

England took a deep breath. He had almost forgotten. _How could he have forgotten?_

Remembering could hurt. Remembering could wound. Remembering could drive you over the edge. Remembering... it could kill you inside. That was what he had learned, all those many, many years ago, alone in the cold, dreary terrain of his homeland, trembling after a battle that brought back his memories, that left him weak and tired and crying... It was then that he had vowed to never allow anything to hurt him so ever again.

It was then that he vowed to forever seal away his memories.

Then... Then he grown, had flourished, become a strong power, spread his empire across the world... He had collapsed. And he renewed his vow, his vow of forgetting, his vow to never remember again all the hurt he had suffered...

But in his haste to stop remembering, he had abandoned the most important thing. And that... that was...

England turned his face to the sun, and smiled.

* * *

Author's Note: Sorry I couldn't get this out yesterday. My mom made me go to bed early. Bleh. And this chapter was really short. And probably the least depressing of them all. Ah, whatever. I like to screw with people's emotions~! *evilly innocent smile* (that doesn't even make any sense...)

But yeah. You figure out what the "most important thing" is! :)

Hope you liked it!


End file.
